


The Curious Incident of the Chair

by paperiuni



Series: Ash and Salt [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Coitus Interruptus, Fluff, M/M, Side Story, Smut, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3889267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperiuni/pseuds/paperiuni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of that one time Dorian and Bull (kind of) had sex in a chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curious Incident of the Chair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alphabetiful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphabetiful/gifts).



> This is basically a tiny untold story in the _House of Ash and Salt_ 'verse, prompted by the lovely Alphabetiful.
> 
> Written for a tumblr meme for the prompt _BEFORE THE BEGINNING — three sentences (or more) about something that happened before the plot of my current project_.

In hindsight Dorian should have known better.

The chair is Skyhold salvage, found in some abandoned corridor, passed through the hands of a pressed carpenter and put into service. When he points Bull to it in a fit of lust-laden ingenuity, it seems a sound plan--one involving a sound chair.

Dorian likes the bed just fine. For everything more resembling an endurance sport, there's no beating the bed. Various tables, bathtubs and windowsills have also served their purpose admirably. Sometimes it's good to improvise, though.

"Fucking you like this is going to be a bit of an adventure." Bull drags Dorian's shirt up as if to punctuate his appraisal. The collar snags on Dorian's earring and takes what remains of his hair oil with it. It says something that Dorian hardly manages to care.

"You like me right here," he shoots back, gives an eloquent roll of his hips where he's sitting astride Bull's lap. His calves are tucked precariously on the edges of the seat, but Bull is solid and strong under him.

"You got me there." At last Bull drops the damned shirt and grabs Dorian instead.

Dorian kisses him with as many degrees of tenderness as his arousal and better judgment allow. This is a point in the chair's favour--it encourages a modicum of haste. He rather likes that idea. It'll stop him from lingering.

Bull yanks at the laces of his breeches a tad too hard. Dorian probably deserves it. "In the middle of something here, remember?"

Dorian halts the slow circles his fingers seem to be rubbing into Bull's shoulder. The skin is scraped by harness straps, roughened by long-healed injuries. A history of violence, carved and burned, unfolding under his hands. Marked by death but serving as proof of life.

Hissing in private frustration--not yet the good kind--he slides his hands down and lets Bull claim his mouth again. It quickly spirals into one of those kisses Dorian can feel in his toes for long moments afterwards. Canted, slanted, teasing and thorough. Bull's hand traps his wrist and crooks his arm down to the small of his back. Teetering, Dorian seizes Bull's shoulder with the other and lets himself be pinned in this small, easy way. It's become casual. It's become familiar. The chair creaks as he balances into Bull's hold.

It seems that the things he would allow are legion. He still might sneer at Bull assuming that he's a stranger to some novel sort of debauchery that comes up. Tevinter has a well-earned reputation for decadence. Dorian doesn't always know if he's preserving or subverting it. Imaginative fornication is an Imperium feature--practising it with a _qunari_ is where the lines blur.

Bull's steady fingers enfold Dorian's cock and he settles for a pleased drag of air in through his teeth. The simple, sure stroke makes his leg muscles tremble, nothing to do with the strain of sitting with his thighs so spread. Simple is fine, Dorian supposes. He can work on his notoriety some other day. Get Bull to fuck him on the second round.

"Back to the oldest tricks in the book?" he still has to mutter, a weak challenge as best.

"You wanted the blighted chair," Bull tells him, mellow and low.

Dorian puts his teeth against the jut of Bull's collarbone, tugs and licks, strains up to kiss the dip of his throat and gets a near-silent growl of pleasure humming under the skin. That does nothing to divert the maddening glides of Bull's hand over his cock. Maker, Dorian's easy these days, and he can't quite rue that fact. He tries to swallow a moan at a particularly nice stroke. The sound rises from him and he rises to grind up against Bull's hand and--

There's a scrape of splintering wood.

The first syllable of a blistering epithet leaves Dorian's mouth. Bull echoes it with a startled " _Shit_ \--!" and throws his arm out in a vain attempt at balance, and they crash to the floor in a mess of limbs. The impact jostles up Dorian's knees. Bull swears again, a long, hissed litany of Qunlat.

The upset chair lies to the side, the joint of one birchwood leg torn free.

" _Venhedis_ ," Dorian spits out for good measure. "Ah--nothing broken, I hope?" He scoots back, still on his knees, gulping down a calming breath. Bull at least cushioned his fall.

Bull looks at him with one slitted eye. Then he throws his head back, the merry bastard, and breaks into roaring laughter.

"Well," Dorian says, "there go your chances of me pulling any splinters from your arse." He must be a sight, though, eyes wide with alarm, in utter disarray. Bull is still laughing, full-bodied and unguarded, as Dorian hastily laces his breeches again. Of all the ridiculous turns this tryst might have taken…

"Worth it," Bull manages. "You should know I'm _not_ telling you 'I told you so'."

"Laugh it up, you lummox. I'm _rather_ sure I'm not to blame for this failure of carpentry." A traitorous tug of muscle pulls at Dorian's lips.

"You good?" Bull sits there with his legs sprawled, in the middle of the chair's earthly remains, amusement in his eye, and has the utter gall to worry over Dorian.

"It was your tailbone in serious jeopardy and you ask if I'm fine?"

"I take worse spills on the training yard every week. Every other day, if Cassandra is around."

Dorian hides his smile against Bull's scar-smattered arm. "Your back will feel that jolt tomorrow, anyway. Get on the bed."

"Now you want the bed." Bull's fingers curl around the nape of Dorian's neck. They're gentler than they have any right to be.

"This is a preventive measure." Dorian dips his head against the curved hand, just for a heartbeat, before climbing onto his feet. "I will not be responsible for hurrying up and down the stairs at your every whim if you become bed-ridden with some calamitous back ache."

"Aww. That hurts, Dorian." Bull clambers up, too, though he braces a hand on the wall as he does.

Dorian rolls his eyes before fishing up the vial of oil Bull keeps by the bed. He has in mind a more prosaic use for it this time, but it will do the job. "It'll hurt worse later. Remove that crime against clothing that you call trousers and get on the bed, if you please."

"I'm getting a little wary of following _your_ whims, ‘Vint," Bull says, but it's edged with a chuckle. How dare he. How dare he make Dorian want to join in that laughter as if it were the most straightforward thing under the sun.

"Of course," he sighs. "If you must know, I'm planning an elaborate northern ritual involving the use of warm oil and a pair of good hands. Vulgarly known as a back rub. Possibly followed by a hot bath. We can get back to the sex afterwards."

Bull's rumble of laughter vibrates against Dorian's temple, then his mouth. Dorian kisses him back until an answering chuckle from his own throat breaks them apart.

It feels simple in the moment. He can, Dorian decides, live with that.


End file.
